Bike Week Blues (15 page)

“Strange by whose standards? Hers or ours?”
Ruthie went to the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of Duke’s
mayonnaise. “How about a good old tomato sandwich?”

A slice of tomato on trimmed white bread
with a little mayonnaise was a Southern tradition that couldn’t be
beat. I hadn’t had one in years. “That would be wonderful.”

I watched as she sliced the tomato and cut
the crust off the bread.

“She’s a lot more weepy than I’ve ever seen
her. I suspect it’s because she stopped her hormone therapy.” She
handed me a sandwich.

“What? I hadn’t heard about that! She
bragged about how good she felt the last time I saw her.”

“All the bad press finally got to her. Even
though her doctor said the chances of bad side effects were
miniscule, Penny Sue decided to stop. I told her to take black
cohosh, but I’m not sure she ever did.”

Geez, that explained a lot. ...
a fair
woman which is without discretion.
Clearly, Grammy was
referring to Penny Sue’s emotionally volatile state. Yet, what
should we do about it? Or was I jumping to conclusions because I’d
read all those menopause books? Everyone feels hot from time to
time and gets crabby. It doesn’t mean the old juices are drying up,
right? Certainly,
my
juices weren’t drying up! I clicked the
mug down so hard, Ruthie jumped.

“What?” she screeched.

“Sorry, I was thinking about my dream,” I
fibbed. “Ann. I’m worried about Ann. I hope she hasn’t hooked up
with a smooth-talking Casanova. Twenty years may not seem like much
of an age difference to her now, but what about when she’s forty?
She’ll want to go to rock concerts, and he’ll want to watch golf on
TV. If there is television, or golf, in Outer Mongolia.”

“OUTER MONGOLIA?!” It was Penny Sue. She
shuffled into the room with the appearance of a person who’d been
fighting demons. Her hair was matted with sweat (er,
perspiration—Southern Belles do not sweat), her robe was half tied,
and mascara smeared on her cheek. “What are y’all doing up?”

“We couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Witch—”

“Witch!” Penny Sue snapped. “You don’t look
so good yourself.” She tied her robe and ran her fingers through
her damp hair.

“I didn’t mean you were a witch, I meant
this is the witching hour. Two to four a.m. Right, Ruthie? That’s
when the spirits pierce the veil and wake us up.”

“Oh,” Penny Sue mumbled, heading for the
thermostat. “It’s so damned hot in here. That’s why I got up.” She
looked at the digital readout. “73? No way. Something’s wrong with
this dumb thing.” She thumped the thermostat with her finger, then
opened the panel and punched the button to lower the setting. “I’m
having someone come look at this first thing Monday morning. The
temperature has to be off, don’t you think?” That’s when she
noticed our mugs. “Is that hot chocolate?” She fanned herself.
“You’re drinking something hot in this oven?”

“Yeah, we couldn’t sleep and thought it
would help. Besides, the British drink hot tea in the heat of
summer. Did in India, and it cooled them down.”

Penny Sue raked her hair away from her face
as sweat beaded on her forehead. She backed up to stand under an
air conditioning vent in the ceiling. “Then, please, give me
some.”

At five-thirty we were still talking and
watching the Weather Channel. Ruthie voiced the possibility that
Penny Sue was having hot flashes and Penny Sue finally agreed to
try black cohosh. I’d told them my dream about Ann, which they
concluded was simply a projection of my fears. They, also, urged me
to go the extra mile to accommodate the trip with Zack, provided
Ann gave me Patrick’s birth data, as promised. Regardless of Zack’s
schedule, that was my condition for going to England.

So, I was feeling very empowered, as they
say in the women’s seminars, when the phone rang. It was almost six
o’clock. My first thought, naturally, was of Ann. Crap, I wasn’t
ready to deal with it. One little jingle, and my nerve evaporated.
We all looked at the phone. Dreading the message, I made no move.
Finally, Penny Sue got up and answered it.

“No problem. We were already awake, couldn’t
sleep.” She listened intently, then held the receiver out to me.
“It’s Frannie May. She couldn’t sleep either and has been listening
to her police scanner. She wants to speak to you.”

Frannie May had a police scanner? I took the
phone.

“A policeman’s going to be there at eight.
Something about another gunshot to Penny Sue’s car?” she said
eagerly.

“Yes, it happened last night. We parked in
the shopping center across from the Pub, and someone nailed the
other P in Penny Sue’s license plate.”

“Did they get the dog?”

“Uga?”

“Whatever, the dog on the plate with the
spiked collar.”

“No, just the second P.”

“Then, this is personal.” Frannie May stated
emphatically. “Go pack your clothes. The minute you finish with the
police, come to my house. I have a three-car garage, so we can hide
Penny Sue’s Mercedes. I also have four guestrooms, you’ll be
comfortable. Besides, Carl is downstairs and he has lots of
friends. You’re not safe there. No argument. Call me as soon as the
cops leave.”

* * *

They came, they saw, they went. That was the
extent of the police’s interest in Penny Sue’s car. An officer, who
looked all of fifteen years old, dug out the slug, took a quick
photo, and they were off.

“A lot of help we’ll get from them,” Penny
Sue said as the police drove away.

I shrugged. “It’s Bike Week, Penny Sue.
Their resources are stretched to the limit. A bullet hole in a
license plate isn’t exactly high priority.”

“I know. In any event, it means that if
anything gets done, we’ll have to do it ourselves.” She turned to
us and clapped her hands. “So, let’s get going.”

Lord, she’d morphed into an elementary
school teacher. Ruthie and I bit our tongues as Penny Sue barked
orders.

“You’d better call Ted,” she said, as we
stacked our suitcases in the hall. “He’ll worry if we’re not here.
What about Ann? Maybe you should call her, too.”

“I’ll call Ted, because he may stop by. As
for the rest, it will only worry them. We’ll check our messages
regularly and no one will be the wiser.”

Penny Sue nodded emphatically. “Good
idea.”

By ten-thirty we’d loaded the car, including
the liquid Taser, and were ready to go. Penny Sue picked up the
Book of Answers,
put Lu Nee in sentry mode in the living
room, and set the alarm. As Penny Sue locked the front door, I
caught a glimpse of Shrewella peeking through the blinds of her
second floor window.

“Nosey old biddy,” Penny Sue muttered as she
started the car.

“Look on the bright side,” I said. “We have
free, round-the-clock surveillance.”

Penny Sue grinned. “Yeah.”

Frannie May’s house is one of many large
homes, on big lots overlooking the Intercoastal Waterway on North
Peninsula Drive. A modern day adaptation of an old Florida-style
house with a metal roof and wide porches, it was huge. A four story
structure, the first floor consisted of a three-car garage and an
apartment for Carl. A white-railed staircase reminiscent of
something from
Gone With the Wind
led to the second floor
porch and main entrance. We’d brought both cars and parked in the
driveway. Fran must have been waiting, because she appeared in the
front door with a remote control in her hand. She pushed the
button, and one of the garage doors rose. “Pull in there, Penny
Sue,” she called. “Quick, before someone sees your car. Leigh, pull
in behind her.”

As I’ve said before, Frannie isn’t very
tall, but has a commanding presence. So, when she said “Quick,”
Penny Sue and I did exactly that.

“Good,” Fran said, giving us each a hug.
“You’ll be safe now. Let’s get your stuff into the house. See that
door over there,” she pointed to an ornate hatch about two feet off
the ground. “That’s a dumbwaiter. Load your stuff in it and push
three. The guestrooms are on the third floor.”

“This is cool,” Penny Sue said admiringly as
we stuffed in the last suitcase. “What a great idea.”

“A necessity. You don’t think I’m going to
lug groceries up all those stairs, do you? And, the way Carl, Jr.
and my Carlo,” she crossed herself, “ate, there were tons of
groceries. We have two pantries, and one was always filled with
pasta and crushed tomatoes. Can’t get the good brands down here so
we had them shipped from Boston by the case. Well, come in. Let me
show you around.” She hit the remote for the garage door and
ushered us up the front steps. The foyer rose two stories, with a
hardwood stairway to the right that led to a balcony above.
Sunlight streamed through a huge bay window in a country kitchen
directly ahead.

Frannie shut the door and immediately drew
our attention to a porcelain umbrella stand next to the entrance.
“See this?”

“Very nice,” Ruthie mumbled.

“No, not the stand, this!” Fran plunged her
arm into the container and pulled out an aluminum baseball bat.
“This is for emergencies. If anyone tries to get in, whack ’em in
the crotch.”

Penny Sue chuckled. “Great idea. I’ll have
to get one for my house in Atlanta.”

“This way.” Frannie May led us up the
staircase to the guestrooms on the third floor. She opened the door
to the dumbwaiter and pulled out our luggage. “Take your pick.” She
motioned to the rooms.

There were four cheery guestrooms, each with
a private bath and doorway to the balcony that overlooked the
water. Lord, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. Penny Sue
immediately went for the room with a hibiscus theme, in line with
the red flames on her boots, I supposed. Ruthie chose the center
room decorated in a delicate yellow with dark, Key West style
furniture. I picked the room farthest from Penny Sue—she snored on
occasion—which was adorned in pale blue.

Fran pointed to a door at the far end of the
hall. “As soon as you’re settled, meet me in the cupola.” She
headed up a narrow staircase to the small windowed room. Our
interest aroused, we unpacked in a matter of minutes. When we made
it to the cupola, Fran was sitting in an old rocking chair next to
a tooled leather trunk.

“I’d forgotten all about this until now. It
belonged to Uncle Enrico, my mother’s youngest brother. He
disappeared a few years ago. Since I was the only living relative,
I had to clean out his apartment. I found this in a closet.”

“Disappeared?” Ruthie asked. “No clue what
happened to him?”

Fran shook her head. “He was a loner. Never
married. No one in the family even knew what he did for a living.
Actually, we were afraid to ask, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I
think this might come in handy, considering your present
predicament.” She pulled a small key from her pocket and opened the
trunk. My jaw sagged. The trunk was packed with weapons! One by
one, Fran pulled them out and laid them on the floor.

“Maggot, your uncle had an arsenal,” I
exclaimed. “What are they?” Of course, the crossbow and arrows
needed no explanation. Nor the fact that there were a lot of guns
in all sizes.

As calmly as a person might give a tour of a
flower garden, Fran identified each weapon. “That little thing is a
four shot palm derringer. Cute, isn’t it?”

It looked like a toy.

“This one is a Beretta with a silencer, and
these,” she pointed to two blunt-looking rifles, “are sawed off
shotguns.” Fran stood, cracked her back, and pointed to the right.
“Carl, Jr. says that’s a sniper rifle.”

Sniper rifle? Geez, I was glad Uncle Enrico
was missing.

“That little can holds pepper spray.” She
waved to the left. “Naturally, that’s a crossbow, and the bolt
cutters go without saying.”

“Bolt cutters?”

“Well, I guess he had a need to cut chains
from time to time.” She rolled her shoulders. “If things get dicey,
we’ll be prepared.” She winked and snatched the pepper spray. Penny
Sue winked back.

Was Fran kidding? I wasn’t sure.

“Help me put this stuff up, and we’ll get
something to eat. I made a big batch of tarragon chicken salad. How
does that sound?”

“Terrific,” Ruthie said weakly, carefully
picking up the Beretta with two fingers and placing it in the
trunk.

Not to be outdone, Penny Sue ran to get the
Taser from her car as we helped Fran set out the food.

I’ve always heard that Jewish mothers put
out spreads fit for a king and won’t take no for an answer when it
comes to eating. They have nothing over Italian mothers if Fran was
typical. The batch of chicken salad could have fed an army, not to
mention huge hunks of Italian bread and a literal vat of
gazpacho.

“Fran, you must have cooked all morning,” I
said, placing a soup tureen on a large oak table set in front of
the bay window.

She waved off the remark. “The chicken salad
is my own secret recipe. I bought the bread, and the soup came from
Beach Buns. Why go to all that trouble when the stuff you can buy
is nearly as good as homemade? I used to cook everything from
scratch when my Carlo was alive. He loved good food and really
appreciated the effort. Now, it’s typically just me and Carl, Jr.
Cooking doesn’t seem worth the effort for two. But on weekends he
and his Klingon buddies come for dinner after their match. That’s
fun, especially if they’ve won. In fact, the Romulans usually come,
too.” She smiled wistfully. “There’s nothing like cooking for a
group of hungry men.”

“Has Carlo been gone long?” Ruthie
asked.

“Almost five years. Heart attack. He was an
investment banker in Boston. A very stressful job. We moved down
here to get away from the hustle and bustle of Boston about ten
years ago, after his first heart attack. As long as Carlo had a
telephone, fax, and an airport, he could work from almost anywhere.
Even though the pace here is relaxed, he couldn’t slow down. Today
they’d probably diagnose him as hyperactive—no one thought of such
things back then.” She pressed her lips together wistfully “I’m
thankful he didn’t suffer. He died in my arms on that couch over
there.” She pointed to the great room adjacent to the kitchen.